


Relief

by silentdescant



Series: Snapshots [33]
Category: Pentatonix, Superfruit
Genre: Begging, Desperation Play, Dom/sub, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obedience, Omorashi, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:10:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentdescant/pseuds/silentdescant
Summary: Scott pushes a new water bottle into Mitch’s hands.“What?” Mitch asks, mildly surprised by the gesture. He doesn’t say that he could’ve grabbed his own. He knows Scott likes to give him things, likes to feel in control in subtle ways. He unscrews the cap. “Thanks.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> KINKtober Day 29: Watersports/Omorashi

The day starts as it always does: Mitch sleeps in as long as he can before Scott brings him coffee. They have lunch together, just the two of them, room service out on the eighth floor balcony, and Mitch tells Scott all of his ideas for the album. They have to narrow down the tracks soon, and there are a few songs Mitch is very insistent about keeping.

He spends a while on the treadmill and then they have a band meeting where, thankfully, it doesn’t matter that Mitch is a sweaty mess. He sits down between Kirstie and Kevin on the couch and gratefully accepts the water bottle Scott passes him.

His heart rate is still elevated, and if there’s anything that convinces him he’s out of shape, it’s that. Mitch sucks down the water until it’s gone and twists the empty bottle between his hands, letting the group’s voices wash over him. He’s already told Scott all his opinions and Scott relays them now, allowing Mitch to zone out, just a little. He flips the water bottle around and around in his lap, staring at the tiny droplets clinging to the plastic.

They end up talking until it’s time for their meet and greets, and as they head out, Scott pushes a new water bottle into Mitch’s hands.

“What?” Mitch asks, mildly surprised by the gesture. He doesn’t say that he could’ve grabbed his own. He knows Scott likes to give him things, likes to feel in control in subtle ways. He unscrews the cap. “Thanks.”

Time flies once they start meeting people. It’s a blur of faces and names and smiles and acrid Sharpie fumes. Mitch forgets to finish his water until they head out to the stage for sound check, when Scott downs his own bottle and gives Mitch a meaningful look.

“I want some tea,” Mitch tells him.

“Finish the water first,” Scott says.

Mitch doesn’t argue with him. Halfway through sound check, Kate brings him a mug of tea, steaming hot, and Mitch sips at it between songs. He loses track of time again when fans start to appear, and the tea goes cold in his hands. He drinks it anyway, as soon as they leave the stage.

When they’re done with all of their pre-show commitments, they gather together in the green room for a hurried bite to eat before changing into their stage clothes. Avi starts talking about songs for the album again, because they never actually finished their conversation earlier, and Mitch can sense time slipping away again.

Show days and band meetings are always like this. Hours pass in a blink, and he usually forgets to eat and drink because of it. Thankfully they have Esther and Kate to keep them on schedule, and today, at least, Mitch has Scott to remind him about meals. He hands Mitch a plate and a fresh water bottle and stares at him until he devours both.

Once they’re dressed, Scott pushes another water bottle at him.

“I’m good,” Mitch says. “Thanks.”

“Drink it,” Scott tells him firmly.

“I’m _fine_.”

“Mitch.” Scott stares him down. This is a _thing_ , tonight, apparently. Mitch rolls his eyes and accepts the water.

A few songs in, Mitch starts to regret taking Scott’s direction. The situation isn’t dire—not yet—but Mitch can tell it will be soon. It’s mildly distracting, but that’s sort of a good thing. It forces Mitch to focus, to channel his energy into remembering the choreography and the blocking that’s usually second nature to him.

Mitch hurries offstage for Kevin’s solo and runs directly into Scott, who steps into his path and catches him with both hands. “I need to get to the bathroom,” he says in an undertone.

“No, you don’t,” Scott replies.

“Now’s my only chance until New Year’s Day,” Mitch says. “Let me go.”

“No.”

It’s the hungry glimmer in Scott’s eyes that finally clues Mitch in to the fact that _this_ is Scott’s thing tonight. It’s not telling Mitch what to do, it’s _this_. He stares up at Scott for a long moment.

“Okay,” he whispers.

The corners of Scott’s lips quirk up slightly. “Good,” he says.

The remainder of the show is brutal only because Mitch keeps _thinking_ about it. He keeps wishing he’d run to the bathroom during their break, and he keeps looking over at Scott and remembering why he didn’t.

They leave the stage together and the temptation to scurry off to the bathroom is so strong that Mitch actually starts walking in that direction. Scott grabs his arm and asks, casually, “Where ya goin’?”

“Um. Nowhere,” Mitch answers.

“Two more songs,” Scott says.

“Right.”

Scott leans close and presses a sloppy kiss to Mitch’s sweaty cheek. “You’re being so good, Mitchy,” he murmurs. “Just wait for me.”

Mitch can do that. He can. He can wait for Scott. He nods. “Okay.”

They file back out to the stage. The show’s almost over. Mitch is jittery, shaking with tension. _Two more songs_ , he repeats to himself. Over and over. _Two more songs_. Then the lights come on and it’s _one more song, one more song, onemoresong_ and he can feel sweat dripping down his neck. He focuses on it. He closes his eyes and feels a piece of confetti stick to his face. He wipes it off. Waves goodbye. He can’t think straight anymore. He follows Kevin offstage. Feels Scott at his back.

Adrenaline is pumping through his veins and it’s almost enough to distract him. Scott loops an arm around Mitch’s shoulders and hauls him in close, hugging him sideways and keeping him from running off. 

People are talking—Kirstie’s talking. Esther’s talking. Mitch can barely make out the words. He bounces on the balls of his feet and grabs a fistful of Scott’s jacket behind his back.

“You’re sweating,” Scott says. His voice comes through loud and clear. “You want some water?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No, I can’t.”

Scott presses a bottle into Mitch’s hand. Mitch didn’t even see him pick it up from somewhere. He even unscrews the top for Mitch.

“I can’t,” Mitch whispers. His hand is shaking. The water’s going to spill.

“Yes, you can.”

Mitch lifts the bottle to his lips. He only manages a tiny trickle. His belly _hurts_ now. “Scott,” he groans.

“Let’s go change out of these clothes,” Scott says, rescuing the water bottle from Mitch’s unsteady hands.

“Yes, please.”

Mitch leads the way to his dressing room. His hands are clenched into tight fists. He presses them to his thighs as he walks, hurrying through the maze of corridors backstage. Scott closes and locks the door behind them.

“Take off your clothes,” Scott says.

“I can’t move, I can’t fucking—”

“Breathe,” Scott tells him. “You’re fine. I promise. Just breathe for a minute and get undressed.”

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t—”

“I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Fuck you,” Mitch pants. He sucks in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. His whole body is shaking. He whips his sweater off over his head and drops it to the ground carelessly. His fingers are clumsy on the fly of his pants, but he finally gets them open. Even just that slight release of pressure is a relief. It’s awkward to bend over and take off his shoes, and yank his pants off over his feet.

All the while, Scott watches him.

When Mitch reaches for his underwear, Scott cuts in quickly. “Leave it,” he says. “Leave your underwear on.”

“ _Please_ ,” Mitch groans. “Please let me go.”

“Not yet.”

It’s extremely clear to Mitch that he could simply refuse. There’s a bathroom literally two feet behind Scott; Mitch is staring longingly past him to the door. Mitch could just _go_ and Scott wouldn’t stop him. But as much as this hurts, and as humiliating as it is to have to beg to _use the toilet_ , Scott’s taking control in a way he never has before, and Mitch really does not want to ruin it.

“Turn around,” Scott says.

Mitch turns on his heel. He bounces a little. Squeezes his thighs together. Forces himself to take a few deep breaths while Scott comes up behind him.

He watches Scott’s progress in the lighted mirror. It’s like Scott’s moving in slow motion—or maybe Mitch is just too jittery in comparison. Scott reaches around Mitch’s torso with both arms, closing him into a bear hug, and hooks his chin over Mitch’s shoulder.

Scott’s right hand drifts down Mitch’s chest, his abdomen. Presses gently on his bladder.

“No, no, fuck, please, no, no, please,” Mitch whines.

Scott ignores him and presses harder. Mitch grabs his wrist. It doesn’t help. The pressure is too much. Mitch feels sweat prickling on his scalp, his sternum, down his spine. He’s hot, too hot all over. Vibrating, desperate for relief.

He closes his eyes and throws his head back against Scott’s shoulder. He’s so tense. Every muscle straining. There are tears slipping out of the corners of his eyes.

“Shit, shit, shit, shitshit _shitshitshit_ —”

“Look at me, baby.”

“I can’t, no, I can’t, shit, shhhh—”

“ _Mitch_.”

Mitch’s eyes snap open. He fixes his gaze on Scott’s, though the mirror.

“Keep them open.”

Scott presses his hand into Mitch’s belly again, slow and steady and inexorable. Mitch whines, high in his throat. He can’t help it.

“You want to go?” Scott asks

Mitch is no stranger to begging. The words fall from his lips immediately: “Please, please, please—”

“You know how this works,” Scott murmurs. “Ask for permission.”

Oh _god_ , Scott’s treating this like an orgasm. It’s different, it’s totally different, it’s humiliating and childish and it _hurts so much_ , but Mitch knows how to ask for what he wants. His face flames red, prickly with the sudden heat of his blush. “Please, Scott, please, sir, please, can I—” Not come. Not this time. “Please, may I go?”

“Very nice,” Scott says softly. “Very pretty. You were so good today, waiting for me all this time. Yes, you may go.”

Mitch pulls automatically against Scott’s grip but Scott holds him tight. His arms are locked around Mitch’s torso, pinning Mitch’s hands to his sides. 

“Right here, baby. For me.”

“No, I can’t, I can’t,” Mitch sobs. Tears are streaming down his face now and it’s hard to breathe.

“Yes, you can. So good for me, Mitchy. Stop resisting. I want you to.”

Scott squeezes him around the waist—and Mitch can feel how hard Scott is against his ass—and Mitch loses control of his own body. He gasps, reaches back and twists his hand in Scott’s shirt as a tiny, wet stain blooms on the front of his underwear. It’s just enough to relieve some of the tension and Mitch starts panting hard, like he’s just run a mile. He can’t catch his breath, doesn’t even want to, because the lightheaded taste of reprieve feels almost like coming.

“Come on, Mitch,” Scott murmurs in his ear. “Let go for me. I’ve got you. It’s okay.”

Mitch closes his eyes and this time Scott doesn’t correct him. He holds his breath and releases, and the tension drains from his body instantly. It’s better than an orgasm; it’s an immediate, all-over relief. He’s weak, wracked with shuddering sobs. Scott’s the only thing keeping him upright, and Scott is talking to him, whispering to him.

Scott’s praise cuts through the fog in Mitch’s brain. It cuts through the shame. The humiliation. It shines through him and eases the fear, invites warm satisfaction instead.

Mitch finally looks back into the mirror and blinks at their reflection, at Scott’s arms tight around him, at his own wet underwear. It’s warm and somehow comforting between his legs, and Scott’s rocking their bodies together, pushing his hard cock against Mitch’s ass. He’s still wearing his stage clothes, Mitch realizes, and Mitch is shivery with lust at how they look together. Naked and clothed. Soiled and clean.

All too soon, though, the once-comforting wetness grows cold and clammy, and Mitch shivers for an entirely different reason. His legs are slippery when he rubs them together. Mitch sort of likes it, but it’s starting to be uncomfortable.

“Am I allowed to clean up now?” he whispers, meeting Scott’s gaze in the mirror.

“Yeah.”

“I don’t have any other underwear here,” Mitch realizes aloud.

“You don’t need it.”

Scott lets go of him. Mitch peels the underwear off and goes into the bathroom. He leaves the door open and Scott leans against the doorjamb while Mitch runs the water in the sink and dampens a washcloth.

“You were so good tonight,” Scott says.

Mitch glances over at him, at his crossed arms and content smile. He’s proud of himself for making Scott look this way. He’s proud of himself for following Scott’s directions even when it was hard.

“You look so fucking hot when you’re desperate. When you can’t control yourself anymore. I could feel you give in. You just… It was like flipping a switch. Your obedience made me feel so powerful, but then you were just… so beautiful.”

Mitch blushes to the tips of his ears. He turns his full attention to scrubbing his bare legs with the soapy washcloth, because looking at Scott right now is too overwhelming. He finishes washing up and drying his legs after a few minutes and turns around to find Scott waiting for him with a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

Scott watches Mitch put the clothes on. Stares at him hungrily.

“Do you want me to…” Mitch asks hesitantly once he’s dressed.

“No, I’ll wait ‘til we’re back at the hotel and I can get you back out of those clothes,” Scott replies. “ _Then_ , yes. I want you.”

 

 _fin_.


End file.
